


Archetype

by Maura_Kate



Series: The Archetype Series [1]
Category: Archetype - Fandom, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Dubious Consent, Forced Marriage, M/M, Science Fiction, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:59:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18604090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maura_Kate/pseuds/Maura_Kate
Summary: In a future where omegas are a rare commodity, Stiles wakes with his memory wiped clean. His husband, Chris, a powerful and seductive man, narrates the story of his past, but Stiles’ dreams contradict him. They show him war, a camp where omegas are trained to be wives… another man. Something inside him warns him not to speak of these things, but the longer Stiles spends recovering from his “accident”, the more he realizes the world is not as it seems.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMERS!  
> First time posting... ever. Please be kind! This is going to be based on a series by M. D. Waters called Archetype, with a Teen Wolf twist. An amazing read, I highly recommend it! Just a warning, I will be playing around with some of the more major plot points in the series. And, of course, there will be magic and supernatural shenanigans.

 

 

_You can’t choose what stays and what fades away_

           His mind wakes.

            He blinks.

            The words for these actions are lost to him entirely. The world is a series of fleeting impressions, sensations that he does not have the capacity to describe.

            Light, blindingly bright. Shifts of color. Words that sift around him, important, but impossible to grasp. _No we don’t need that anymore—leave it for the wolves--_

            He blinks. Takes a breath. And another.

            There are small particles of dust floating in his vision. His fingers twitch, ready to grasp them, to make them stop flitting in and out of his sight, overwhelmed by his inability to do so.

            _He’s waking up._

The sterile aluminum lamp is pushed aside, and a face appears. Dark brown eyes between a grey cap and surgical mask. A pinprick of light appears. Cold fingers pry his eyes open when they close reflexively. His hands move feebly, as though to bat them away.

            The man leans back. “Hm.”

            “Hm, what?” A gruff voice sounds from somewhere near his head.

            The brown-eyed man pulls down his mask, revealing a neat beard and a mild frown. “Too early to tell.”

            “But?”

            “But…” The man scans him from head to toe, eyes slightly narrowed. “I think we may have finally done it.

            A half-laugh, half sob. “You, my old friend. You’ve finally done it.” A calloused palm reaches from where it rested on the table, stroking the side of his head.

            “Only time will tell,” is the man’s cryptic reply. “Regardless, I must insist we use the seal immediately. Hold him.”

            The calloused palms travel to his shoulders, pressing him to the table.

            The brown-eyed man moves away, returning with a large metal rod. “Preference?”

            A hand moves briefly to his chest, and he is aware of the steady beat of his own heart. “Here,” he growls.

            “Very poetic, Chris.”

            “Just do it,” the hand retreats back to his shoulder.

            The metal presses down, and then all he knows is pain. It spirals and drags him down into vast darkness.

            An animal noise emerges from that deep darkness, and in his primitive panic and pain, the snarl almost sounds like a name.

            _Stiles!_

           

*** 

            The vibrant green leaves turn into shades of orange, red, and yellow. The sweltering heat changes into whipping winds that drift through cracks between the frames of windows he is not allowed to open. But sometimes he traces his thin, pale fingers along the edges, chasing the sensation of a cool breeze.

            With the passing of time comes comprehension. Of language, of color, of textures, scents. Chris says Stiles used to know them, and that Chris will teach him all he needs to know now. Stiles thinks that Chris will reward him when he gets the lessons right. He already sneaks him “treats” that the doctors don’t want Stiles to eat during his recovery.

            Today, Chris brought him curly fries. His favorite. But he won’t let him have any yet. He wants to teach him something new, something important.

            “You are my husband,” he tells Stiles.

            Stiles studies his lips while he frames the words. He has a nice mouth, Stiles thinks, anchored by a salt-and-pepper beard. Stiles is fascinated by it, and reaches out to touch it more often than not, but Chris always pulls away. He says Stiles needs to focus on one thing at a time.

            “I am your husband” Stiles parrots carefully, then smiles with triumph. The words sound right.

            But Chris doesn’t look pleased. A minute line forms between his eyebrows and his blue eyes cloud with some heavy emotion before he looks away and sighs.

            Stiles takes advantage of the moment to try and steal a few of the fries. He said the words, he earned at least two. But Chris sees and he’s quick to snatch them away. “No, Stiles.”

            “Why?” Stiles blows out a frustrated sigh and slinks down in his chair. ‘Why’ was his first, and favorite word, to Chris’ chagrin.

            “You’re just repeating my words to please me,” Chris says, taking Stiles’ hand away from his chest, where Stiles had begun rubbing absentmindedly. Dr. Deaton said the burn was long healed, but sometimes, when Stiles was feeling frustrated, it ached.

            “This is what you want,” Stiles says sullenly.

            Chris stiffens immediately, dropping Stiles’ hand and moving to the window. “I don’t want you to say anything you don’t mean,” Chris says after a moment of staring into the garden.

            “I want curly fries,” Stiles tries.

            Chris snorts, and the tension seems to leave him. “Fine, but don’t tell Deaton. I doubt he would approve of my teaching methods.” He holds the fries out to Stiles, who eagerly begins to shovel them into his mouth.

            Chris watches him for a moment with an unreadable expression. He bends over Stiles and presses a whisper-soft kiss to his temple, “One day you will say it and believe it.”

            He leaves the room.

Somehow Stiles understands that his real lessons have just begun.

 

*** 

            “You are my husband, Chris Argent. I am your omega, Stiles. We were married in a small ceremony with only our closest friends in attendance at your family chateau in France.”

            Stiles and Chris have been spending day after day in the lounge, ever since Deaton found dozens of chocolate wrappers crammed between Stiles’ mattress and bed frame. It was decided that the pair required closer supervision during their “lessons”.

            Chris touches him more often. His favorite thing is to play with Stiles’ hair, which is long enough to grip. He has Stiles kneel on the floor next to him now during lessons. Chris says he “needs it” as an omega. At first, Stiles didn’t like it, but after hours of Chris palming the back of his neck with vice-like pressure, he didn’t have the strength to protest.

            Chris’ smile, after so many weeks of frowns, warms Stiles’ heart and makes his stomach flutter. Chris has a dimple that creases his right cheek when Stiles makes him very happy. Stiles has been better about that lately, once he figured out the secret.

          All he needs to do is remember everything Chris tells him about himself. And Stiles has to believe it.

          This particular smile is so bright, even his eyes gleam with moisture. “Yeah, Stiles, that’s right.” He carefully curls one hand around Stile’s neck. “You were absolutely beautiful”.

            Stiles wants to rise up on his knees and kiss him, then, but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. The last time he tried, Chris had pushed him away. “I don’t want to rush you,” he’d said.

           Stiles is still learning the rules. He’s not allowed to do a lot of things.

          The staff in the hospital say the rules are for his safety. He takes his medicine three times a day. He is not allowed to speak to the staff unless there’s an emergency. He is not allowed to leave his room after seven. He is only allowed in the garden for an hour each day, always supervised. He doesn’t mind as much about the garden; it’s small and boring, just a bench surrounded by well-manicured grass. But sometimes, he catches glimpses of the wild forest just beyond the fence and his chest _burns_ and Stiles doesn’t know why.

           Once when he was out there alone, he had what Deaton called an “episode” where he screamed and screamed and couldn’t stop until the people in blue scrubs came to sedate him.

          Chris says Stiles isn’t allowed out there anymore without him.

          For a while after that, Stiles didn’t want to talk or eat or participate in any more lessons. Nightmares, Deaton told Chris, explaining away the bluish-black circles developing under Stile’s eyes. They started him on new medications, sent him to extra therapy with Dr. Morrel, kept him sequestered in his room, put him on special diets…. Stiles felt as though he faded away for a time.

        Deaton declared him cured after about a week. Though he certainly was encouraged by Chris. Still, Stiles wasn’t having nightmares.  

        Stiles never called them nightmares.

        And they never really went away, he just got better at hiding them.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully it's not too confusing with all the dream sequence flashbacks, but Stiles is pretty confused by it all too!  
> I did some work getting the outline together, so I'm hoping to keep to a solid posting schedule.  
> Thanks for the positive response so far!

 

 _The trees whisper furiously to one another. Stiles moves among them with ease, even weighed down with his bulky pack and belt. Derek and Scott flank him on either side, followed by Jackson at the rear._  

 _Night falls quickly in the forest. Before long, Derek is signaling for them to settle down and make camp._  

 _Stiles and Scott put their bedrolls side by side, ignoring that_ _Jackson snickers at them_ _._  

 _“_ _Enough_ _,_ _Whittemore_ _,” Derek_ _snaps as he prowls around_ _the perimeter._

 _“Hey, it’s none of my business who the omega wants to cozy up with at night,” Jackson smirks, dropping his own bedroll on the other side of the clearing_ _._ _“I was just looking out for your Uncle’s… interests, is all.”_   

 _Stiles nearly chucks his thermos at Jackson, just to wipe the stupid smirk off his face, but he only has the one container of coffee. He settles for words, because serving up_ _alphaholes_ _with a verbal barrage is a_ _Stillinski_ _specialty._  

 _“F_ _irst of all,_ _knothead_ _,_ _m_ _y name is Stiles,_ _second of all I’m nobody’s property and_ _—_  

 _“_ _Enough_ _!” Derek growls, his eyes flashing blue. Stiles can’t help but tilt his head slightly_ _, baring his neck. Jackson looks away sheepishly._  

 _“Stiles, get over here and help me establish our perimeter,” Derek grits out. “_ _Jackson,_ _go to_ _sleep. You’re taking the next watch.”_  

 _Stiles slinks over to where Derek is standing, certain he’s in for a lecture. He’s surprised when Derek grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him until Stiles faceplants into his chest, subtly maneuvering him so Stiles can smell Derek’s neck… his aftershave foremost, but beneath that…_  

 _When Stiles catches Peter’s scent, he can’t help but whimper and grip the back of Derek’s jacket in trembling fists. His feet scramble over the forest floor while he practically melds himself to the stoic ‘wolf, chasing the suggestion of sand_ _al_ _wood and pine clinging to Derek._  

 _“It’s okay, Stiles,” Derek breathes. “It’s okay to need this.”_  

 _“_ _I_ _miss him,” Stiles whispers. “Without him, I’m_ _just_ _that scared omega kid again.”_  

 _“You’re pack, Stiles.” Derek huffs_ _, his arms tightening_ _. “You don’t have to be alone, not again. Not ever.”_  

 ***

 When Stiles wakes, he is alone. His chest aches. He rubs at the mark, fingers tracing the damaged skin, raised permanently in a stylized A. It’s still dark outside.  

“Lights,” he rasps. He palms his face and is startled to find his hands come away wet.  

Square panels on the lower halves of the walls flicker on with a soft hum and glow. 

Stiles clumsily stumbles to his feet, aiming for a glass of water. Before he can travel half the distance of his room, the door is swinging open and Doctor Deaton enters without preamble.  

The abrupt entrance startles Stiles, who flails and almost brains himself on the nightstand.  

He forgets, sometimes, that someone is always watching him. He tried to find the cameras, once, but he never could.  

“Stiles. How are you?” 

“Fine,” Stiles manages. Lately, Deaton has been appearing almost the second Stiles wakes from his dreams, the details of which start to sift away as soon as the doctor enters. 

“You had another nightmare.”  

This isn’t a question as Stiles has come to know them, so he feels safe gulping down a glass of water in lieu of a response.  

“Can you tell me about it?” 

A quiet presence in Stiles’ hindbrain seems to flare in warning to the seemingly innocuous question.  

“I can’t recall,” he says.

Deaton takes a seat on the edge of Stiles’ bed, clearly settling in for the long haul. “After all these months, you never recall the details of the nightmares that have been plaguing you since the beginning of your stay here. I find that odd. Don’t you, Stiles?” 

Stiles shrugs, “I suppose so.” 

“I’m worried about how these episodes are affecting your health.” A pause. “I think maybe we should try nocturnal sedatives again.” 

Stiles’ hands squeeze the glass between them hard enough to crack.  

“Or perhaps two three-hour sessions a day with Dr. Morrell will suffice.” 

 Stiles shudders.

When Deaton gets like this, Stiles knows there’s only one thing for him to say, and he does, as heartfelt as possible: 

 “I just want to go home, doctor.” 

 

*** 

A knock on the door startles Stiles out of a dreamless sleep. Deaton insisted Stiles take a sedative before he would leave him alone the night before. The sedatives leave Stiles feeling heavy throughout the day, and Chris doesn’t seem to like them. They make lessons harder. 

The knock sounds again and before Stiles can gather his thoughts, Randall, expression impassive as ever, strolls in with Stiles’ breakfast tray. Like all of Dr. Deaton’s assistants, he wears blue scrubs over his bulky frame. He’s a beta, Stiles knows, and is content to ignore Stiles for the most part.  

Stiles eyes the plate of plain toast and fruit and can’t muster any enthusiasm for the meal. Still, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and tries to appear the picture of obedience.  

Randall lifts a tiny cup of pills and holds them out with a glass of water. Stiles notes there are two new additions to his regular regimen, two oblong red pills. Stiles swallows the pills without comment, lifting his tongue for Randall to prove they’re gone. 

Randall takes his blood pressure, temperature, pulse and shines a light in both of Stiles’ eyes. He produces a small hammer to check his reflexes. Stiles submits the prodding, knowing the routine. It’s been the same from day one.   

Stiles doesn’t really understand the purpose of these visits. Nothing changes. 

Randall is brusque and clearly bored, but Stiles tries not to take it personally. The man leaves within seconds of finishing, tapping notations on his tablet as he exits. 

Stiles returns to his cold, bland breakfast. He thinks of curly fries. 

His life won’t always be like this, he reminds himself. Soon, Chris will take him away. Their house is in France. He will see the ocean from his bedroom window. They have the best food and wine in the world… Though Stiles won’t be allowed to drink until he is at least 18, Chris says. Stiles wonders how old he is now.  

Soon, he’ll be able to go home.  

Until then, things will continue as they always have. One new day at a time.  

***

 _“Today marks an historic day.”_  

 _The sun sets, and Stiles doesn’t see it. He only has eyes for the television screen in front of him. He’s curled into a tight ball in the middle of the couch, chewing on the ties of his hoodie. Stiles’ half-finished homework, a sheet of paper, the states half-colored in varied shades of blue and red, is left forgotten to one side._  

 _Gerard Argent stands at a podium, addressing the masses as he delivers his victory speech._  

_His dad, the sheriff of their little Californian town, was adamant the man wouldn’t win the election. "Democracy hasn't failed us yet, kiddo."_

_"That's what they said in Nazi Germany, and Venezuela, and--"_

_"Alright, alright," Noah Stillinski said with a wry smile. "Should have known you'd do your research. Listen, I know there's a good number of people that like what that man has to say. Hate and fear can be pretty powerful tools in the wrong hands. But I have faith that the majority will see right through him. He's nothing but a power-hungry megalomaniac."_

_For a while, Stiles believed him. No one seemed to have a good thing to say about Gerard. He was behind in all the polls. Argent’s rhetoric was too extreme for moderate voters, his policies_ _regarding the management of supernatural beings_ _bordering on cruel._  

 _And then a young boy, some omega kid Stiles’ age, was found dead_ _the next town over_ _. Ripped apart. Throat torn out_ _. Then another in Pasadena. And another in Louisville._ _And then opinions changed._  

 _“Today marks an historic day,” Gerard intones, arms sweeping out dramatically. “Today, humanity has spoken! No longer will we submit to the creatures that live in our communities, preying on the weakest among us. No longer will we feel the need to fear the night! Our omega children will not fall to these evil, evil creatures and their vicious ways!”_  

 _The crowd cheers._  

 _“Stiles.”_  

 _Stiles whips around, the blue light from the television illuminating the tears running down his face._  

 _“Oh kiddo,”_ _the_ _sheriff_ _says, taking off his belt and badge and sinking onto the couch next to him._  

 _Stiles immediately takes the opportunity to crawl into his_ _dad’s_ _lap, even though he knows he’s gotten too big. He’s the shortest_ _sixth-_ _grader at Beacon Hills_ _M_ _iddle_ _, but he grew out of cuddling years ago._  

 _Regardless, he quickly settles into that familiar space against his father’s chest and is encircled in his arms, his dad going so far as to rock him slightly._  

 _The sheriff’s mouth is a hard line while he looks at the new President delivering his speech._  

 _“Scott--?” Stiles_ _croaks_ _. His best friend was turned by the alpha of the resident werewolf pack to cure his asthma. A few years ago, they’d decided to put all the supernatural kids in a different school across town, but Stiles didn’t make friends easily._   _He and Scott were brothers, they'd decided long ago._

 _“I took Scottie and Mrs. McCall out to the preserve tonight_ _, along with a few others. They’ll be safe at the Hale’s house.”_  

 _Stiles sniffles a little. “They’re talking about putting some omegas in protective custody, Dad.”_  

 _“Over my dead body,” the sheriff growls, but doesn’t deny that they will try._  

 _When Gerard Argent was governor of Illinois, it was well known that he backed a controversial “omega reform” policy. Omegas that belonged to families who were known sympathizers of supernatural creatures were taken from their homes and placed in government-sponsored rehabilitation centers. T_ _heir parents had been detained for omega endangerment. T_ _heir cases had been tied up in litigation for years, and by_ _then, a lot of the omegas had vanished. By_ _the time their families found them, most had been placed with more "traditional" and "conservative" families. Some of them were already mated._  

 _“If anything like that happens here...” his dad begins. “If_ _anything_ _..._ _happens to me...I want you to go the Hale’s, too. Talia and your mom were always close. She even has some kids your age, remember?”_  

 _Stiles remembers. Before his mother died, there were plenty of long summer days spent carousing with the endless number of Hale children in the vast_ _woodscape_ _surrounding their estate. He remembers chaos and shrieks of laughter and whirling green colors._  

 _He remembers Derek, the oldest of their little pack, gruff and surly but always the first to leap in and assist with scraped knees and bruised elbows. Peter, Derek’s uncle, a bonafide teenager, didn’t have time for their games and was often headed to town in his father’s_ _camero_ _, music too loud._  

 _He remembers dinner at night with the pack, covered in dirt, face sticky with remnants of an ice cream sundae, filled with a sense of profound satisfaction at the efforts of the day._  

 _He had stopped going over there after his mom died. He was worried that it would be like grieving all over again, that he would be waiting for her to appear around every corner._  

 _But now he thinks that those memories won’t hurt him._  

 _The Hale house is a good place, the best place. He won’t mind leaving his dad to spend some time there._  

 _That night, the Hale house burns to the ground._  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long time since the last post! Thanks for reading :)

_ The dream shifts.  _

_ He floats upright in a tank full of water. The occasional bubble sneaks from the respirator covering his face, and pops just above his head. _

_ He cannot blink. _

_ He only floats and watches the convex wo _ _ rld beyond the glass _ _. People come and go in the crowded room beyond, never lingering long.  _

_ If they look at him _ _ , it’s with furtive glances that shift away quickly. _

_ The room is pale concrete, furnished with folding tables and chairs stacked high with books, boxes and computer monitors. _

_ He becomes aware of the steady blip of one of the monitors, matching the pace of his heart. _

_ A woman, small and  _ _ dark-haired, checks the equipment _ _ regularly. Everyone calls her Melissa. Unlike the others, she looks at him often. When she looks at him a certain way, her mouth pulled down at the corners, her brow furrowed, he feels… something. _

_ And then there’s someone else. _

_ A man _ _ sits in a folding chair to the side, angled toward the tube of water, head bent, elbows resting on his knees. He never looks up. He never moves. _

_ “Peter.” Melissa calls him. “You need to go and get some rest. You can’t help him like this.” _

_ The man _ _ ’ _ _ s head lifts, and his gaze finally falls on the tube.  _

_Stiles sees his eyes, sees the_ _wretched_ _torment in them, and his heart seems to wrench out_ _of his chest. He think_ _s_ _Peter_ _must be able to hear_ _it breaking_ _._

_ But the monitor continues  _ _ rhythmically steady _ _ …beep…beep…beep. _

_ He wants to escape, he needs to escape.  _

_ He floats on.  _

Stiles shivers and pulls the sweater Chris g ave him closer around his body. The smell of his husband, usually comforting, can’t chase away the phantom sensation of floating in that cold tank. Even the heat of a roaring fire in front of him and the press of Chris’ legs behind him aren’t enough to keep the chill away.

“Still cold?” Chris asks, rubbing his shoulders. 

“I don’t like the winter,” Stiles mumbles. 

“I never noticed that you had a preference before.”

“It’s dark too early, and light too late. And everything is dead,” Stiles scowls at the flakes framed by the window, drifting in a blue twilight.  They have no right to be so pretty.

He’s irritable, and about more than the bleak weather.

 Chris talks  so  often about the Stiles he was, the Stiles he used to be, before the accident. Sometimes he’s jealous of the Stiles that Chris used to love. Sometimes he feels like an imposter, everything about that Stiles is so different. 

“Will I ever remember?” Stiles  finds himself asking aloud . 

“Stiles,” Chris says lowly, warningly. 

Chris lost patience with this topic of conversation long ago . Chris is happy to regale him with tales of their previous life together when Stiles asks. But he doesn’t seem concerned with Stiles’ inability to remember it himself.

Stiles doesn’t understand. Isn’t that why they won’t let him leave the hospital? Doesn’t Chris want him to be well? 

Chris warned him that Deaton said Stiles’ memories might  _ never _ come. Stiles wasn’t sure what to make of  that. Would he always, then, be living in the shadow of Chris’ real Stiles?

Chris begins to massage the nape of Stiles’ neck. Whenever Stiles  gets “worked up” Chris employs this technique. It’s not quite the punishing grip from when he was first trying to reinforce the lessons, but it makes Stiles go boneless all the same. 

“I like the winter, myself,” Chris says mildly after a long silence.

“Why  y’like it?” Stiles slurs , head lolling .

“Well, when I think of winter, I imagine you, me, lying  on a wolfskin  by the fire... wrapped in nothing but each other.”

Even in his semi- stuporous state, Stiles recognizes this statement to be bold for Chris, who rarely encourages Stiles’ fixation on intimacy.  His imagination immediately constructs a scenario in which he and Chris are together, finally home. With nothing between them.

“Will you kiss me?” Stiles wonders aloud. 

“Do you want me to?” Chris asks, gently pulling Stiles’ head back, craning his neck until he’s looking into Chris’ grey-blue eyes.

Stiles feels a nervous flutter in his stomach at this unexpected development. He knows they’ve been married, that maybe he’s kissed Chris a million times in a million different ways.... But for him, this is the first. 

“Yes,” he says breathlessly. 

The time it takes for Chris’ lips to meet Stiles’ is agonizingly long. When they meet, the kiss is gentle, hesitant, with just the faintest scrape of stubble. Stiles realizes that Chris is waiting for him to jerk away, to become overwhelmed.

 He parts his lips instead.

Chris groans and the kiss changes instantly from gentle to hungry, Chris’ tongue quick to dart forward and plunder Stiles’ mouth with ferocity. 

He stops only when Stiles breaks away, gasping for air.  Stiles stares, bewildered, into the flames, and swears they almost look like people, fighting or kissing, he can't tell.

Chris’ arms drape over his shoulders, wrapping tightly as though to hold him in place, as if Stiles would try to run away.

But Stiles wouldn’t. Not ever. He wants to be with him, always. 


	4. Chapter 4

_“Run,” Lydia tells him. She pushes her spade into the soft earth, turning over the soil so something, someday might grow. “Whenever you get a chance. Tell them it’s recreational. Tell them you think you have cabin fever. Tell them you want to look good for your future mate. That works for me, usually.” She haughtily shakes her fire-red tresses._

_Stiles and Lydia are the only omegas working in the garden. There aren’t very many recreational activities in the camp. The omegas plant flowers, some vegetables. It’s supposed to be a soothing activity for them._

_Lydia had been part of a wolf pack in San Francisco, she’d said. One of the few human members. She’d been “rescued” by Omega Protective Services at school._

_Just like Stiles._

_Stiles was never really much of a gardener before now. But he does like the feeling of warm earth between his hands._

_And the guards don’t pay as much attention to two omegas kneeling in the dirt._

_Stiles and Lydia use the garden to plot. Lydia had taught him a lot already, lessons in subtlety that he’d desperately needed._

_When Stiles first arrived at the camp, or rather, when he was first dragged kicking and screaming through the iron wrought gates, he spent the first few days trying to break out. Using all his knowledge from the movies he’d ever seen featuring a jailbreak or a daring escape by a grizzled Clint-Eastwood type alpha. Each scheme he tried was more harebrained than the last, from setting a fire in the culinary skills class to attempting to sneak out in the garbage on trash day._

_Stiles guessed that nothing in real life worked out like it did on TV. Not really._

_The punishment for these little rebellions was always the same. Nobody ever hit him, or yelled at him. Stiles thought it might be better if they strung him up and tried to torture him, like an action hero. Then he could be tough, and spit in their faces and look up and say “Is that all you got?” before he broke free and kicked their asses._

_Instead, the betas on guard would often place him in a binding jacket, like something from the 1950s, for when omega housewives got upset. He would stay in the jacket all day long, unable to use his hands or fidget, which was a hellish experience in and of itself._

_One of the guards would have to feed him, sitting next to him at the long mess hall table with all the other omegas. The act was performed with such indifference, Stiles could usually feel his ears getting red with every cool bite offered to him. It was more embarrassing than anything._

_The third time he’d been in the jacket, (after stealing over a dozen spoons and trying to convince a bunch of other omegas that they could dig a tunnel to freedom), there had been a visitor to the camp._

_An alpha._

_Stiles’ stomach dropped when he recognized the man from television. Gerard Argent._

_The older man looked much larger pacing among the omegas than he did standing behind a podium. He traversed the aisles between the tables, his white hair shining in the fluorescent light. Stiles was struck with the image of a great white shark fin gliding through open water._

_Suddenly, the older man stopped, looming over Stiles’ bound form._

_“Who’s this, then?” He asked jovially, a darkly amused twinkle in his eye._

_“Omega Stillinksi.” His guard grunted._

_Gerard’s eyes widened. “The former sheriff’s son?”_

_Stiles heartrate doubled. Fomer?_

_His guard huffed. “Trouble runs in the family.”_

_Gerard hummed thoughtfully, eyes ravenous. “He’s quite the pretty one. Perhaps worth the trouble.”_

_“He’s twelve.” His guard hedged after an uncomfortable pause._

_Gerard waved a hand, casually sweeping away the comment. “Well he’s going to get older, isn’t he? Why don’t you take a break from your duties? I can take over here.”_

_The guard hesitated, but eventually levered himself up and away from the table, ignoring Stiles’ panicked look._

_Rather than taking the spot the guard had vacated, Gerard swept Stiles into his arms, settling him crossways on his lap. He resisted a little, not understanding why the position made him feel a squirmy-sickness in his stomach._

_“None of that now,” Gerard admonished, a hint of steel running through his friendly tone. “Eat your supper.”_

_The other omegas were silent throughout the meal. The quiet was only broken by the sound of cutlery scraping over plates and the occasional muffled cough._

_“Good omega,” Gerard would murmur on occasion. “Isn’t this nice? So much better than when you were left to your own devices.”_

_Stiles struggled to swallow the bites given to him. The food sat in his stomach like wet concrete._

_“Maybe if you’re a good boy, your daddy can come out sometime to see you.” Gerard whispered, so close to Stiles’ ear he could feel the wet heat of his breath. “I’m sure he’d benefit from some time out of his cell.” Stiles’ breath caught. “Such a shame he couldn’t provide the kind of care an omega child needs,” Gerard tutted. “But perhaps you both can be reformed.”_

\----

When Stiles wakes, he remembers the feel of Gerard Argent spooning him his meal.

He also hears Lydia’s voice echoing in his head.

_“When you run, Stiles, you need to run for real.”_

_\----_

Deaton crosses one leg over the other and settles the touch screen tablet in his lap. There’s a small furrow between his brows as he taps the screen. Stiles attempts to look relaxed, picking at a stray string at the knee of his scrubs. Deaton sighs before looking up at Stiles.

“I am not overly impressed with some of these findings, Stiles,” Deaton states baldly. “Particularly your sleep patterns. You seem to be tossing and turning from dawn until dusk. Are you very certain that you don’t have anything you would like to tell me? Don’t think of this as a test. We’re just two friends talking, in a comfortable setting.”

Deaton’s office is indeed a very comfortable place. Real plants and dark wood, bookshelves and books. Stiles caresses the soft leather of the chair he is curled in and considers. Nothing feels safe to talk about.

“I’m not usually very tired,” Stiles says, wincing when he remembers the dark circles below his eyes, betraying the lie. “I mean,” he begins again, “I don’t do very much during the day, when Chris isn’t here.”

“Interesting. What would you like to do with your day, Stiles?” Deaton asks, leaning forward.

“I’m not sure,” Stiles finds himself chewing on his lower lip. If he’s caught in the habit while Chris is around, the older man usually makes him stop. Then he gets a kiss. 

“I think I might like to run.” 


End file.
